“We're going to work,” he said, and there was something almost conversational about it now, like he was explaining basic math. “Harder than you worked last year. Harder than you think you can work. Every practice. Every drill. Every shift. If you're not willing to bleed for this, you're in the wrong room and I'll find someone who will.”
My pulse spiked. That tight feeling in my chest that meant someone had just earned the right to make me better, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to fight it or lean into it.
“I don't care if you like me,” Coach continued, and his voice dropped even lower, more matter-of-fact. “I'm not here to be your friend. I'm here to win hockey games and make you better players than you were yesterday. If that pisses you off, good. Use it. But don't waste my time with excuses or sulking or half-assed effort because I will bench you without blinking.”
He let that hang in the air for a beat.
“One more thing. Last season is over. Whatever mistakes you made, whatever you're carrying, it's done. In this room, we operate on one principle:next shift.”
Next shift.
Two words. Simple. Stupidly obvious.
And something in my chest cracked open just a little.
“You fuck up?” he continued, and now there was almost warmth in it, buried under the steel. “Next shift. You score a hat trick? Next shift. The only thing that matters is what you do right now, in this moment, with the opportunity in front of you. Everything else is noise.”
He looked at each of us again, slower this time, like he was making sure we actually heard him.
“I believe you can win,” he said, and it landed like a fucking anvil. “But belief doesn't mean shit without work. So we're going to find out which one of you actually wants this and which one of you is just here for the paycheck.”
He nodded to Tess. “Practice in ten. Get dressed.”
He walked out without waiting for a response.
The room stayed quiet for exactly three seconds, then exploded into noise. Everyone talking at once, processing, analyzing, deciding whether they respected him or resented him or both.
“Well, he's not a screamer,” Finn said, sounding almost disappointed.
“He's worse,” Mace said, and there was something like admiration in his voice. “He's one of those guys who makes you want to prove yourself just so he doesn't think you're a waste of his time.”
“I like him,” Rook said simply, and started gearing up. Coming from Rook, that was a fucking endorsement.
I sat there, stick in my hands, staring at the door Coach Sutherland had just walked through.
Next shift.
Fuck. I wanted that to be real so badly it hurt.
But I also wanted to test him. Wanted to see if he was actually as solid as he seemed or if he'd crack under pressure like everyone else eventually did. Wanted to make him react, just to prove I could.
Dangerous thought.
I shoved it down and started getting dressed.
Practice was exactlywhat he'd promised. We ran breakout drills until my legs burned, then defensive zone coverage until my brain hurt from tracking assignments, then transition work that required everyone to be in sync or the whole thing collapsed.
Coach didn't yell. Didn't need to. When someone fucked up, he'd blow the whistle and explain the mistake in a voice so calm it was worse than being screamed at. Like he was dissecting a failed play in an autopsy.
“Nineteen, you're cheating toward the middle. Stay wide until the breakout completes.”
That was me.
I adjusted. Did it right the next time.
No praise. Just a nod and we moved on.
Halfway through practice, Coach stopped us mid-drill and skated to center ice. We all coasted to a stop, breathing hard, waiting.
